


The Dress Makes the Man

by Fyre



Category: Scarlet Pimpernel - Baroness Orczy
Genre: Crossdressing, Disguise, F/M, Genderplay, Married Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-02
Updated: 2010-12-02
Packaged: 2017-10-13 11:49:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/137008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sir Percival Blakeney, Bart. is a heroic rogue, a rapscallion, a doer of daring deeds, and an eternal gambler. Usually, he only gambles with his life, but given a challenge he cannot refuse, he may well gamble his dignity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dress Makes the Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [noracharles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/noracharles/gifts).



> This was a plot bunny which bit with surprising ferocity. Of course, it didn't hurt that I spent much of the last 3 days watching various versions of 'The Scarlet Pimpernel', and reading the first book. I adore Percy, especially when he's playing dress-up, so I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it :)

Marguerite was speechless.

It was rare indeed for the Cleverest Woman in Europe to be unable to produce a single witty sally at the expense of her husband. The fact that Sir Percy was currently posing before his mirror in one of her favourite cream and golden ball gowns had quite taken any thought from her head.

It was not long enough for him, and clearly was too narrow across the shoulders, but otherwise, he acquitted himself quite well in stance and posture.

Marguerite covered her lips with one small hand as he attempted to walk across the room with his usual lengthy stride. The skirt tangled about his leg and he pitched sideways. He fell into a chair and tugged the skirts back into order.

“Begad, how does the lady move in the blasted thing?” he rhetorised.

“The lady,” Marguerite said from the doorway, “must move her hips.”

Percy’s head rose at once, and she would swear she saw colour brush across his cheeks. At once, however, he rose and bowed as gallantly as ever. “Madame, i’faith, you do creep up like a very cat.”

She slipped into his chambers and closed the door behind her. “Better I than one of the servants,” she said, eyes dancing. “For shame, Sir Percy, what would they think to find you in such a state of dress?”

He looked down at himself, then flashed a most winning smile. “Madame, I believe they would agree that the colour flatters me beautifully, wouldn’t you say?”

“That, I may agree with,” Marguerite concurred, though her lips were twitching. “Your grace and poise, however, would frighten a ready man half out of his wits.”

He laughed in acknowledgement. “It is not me, you see,” he said. “It is this contraption you women insist on wearing.” He turned carefully on the spot. “I cannot for the life of me make head nor tail of the beast.”

“One might ask, Sir Percy,” Marguerite said, leaning in to adjust the corseted waist, “why you wish to understand at all.”

His eyes shone with mischief. “My Lady,” he said earnestly, “if I am to continue in my role, I must be able to assume any disguise. That is to say that should I be accidentally locked in a lady’s boudoir, I can make use of her garb to make my escape.”

She looked up at him sternly. “And is that the only reason, Percy?”

His face broke into a smile which put her in mind of a naughty schoolchild. “Hastings and Ffoulkes have been saying to the league that they can recognise me through any disguise I might don.” He spread his arms and curtsied clumsily. “I thought to prove otherwise by coming upon them when they least anticipate it.”

Marguerite moved his arms into the more correct position. “Percy,” she said sternly. “If you are intending to be seen in public in one of my gowns, simply to prove to your men that you are indeed a Master of disguise...”

He widened his eyes innocently. “Yes, my dear?”

She sighed. “Then you ought to receive some adequate lessons. I cannot have you falling on your face in front of his Royal Highness.”

He attempted to curtsey again.

She studied him solemnly. “I have seen horses kneel with more elegance,” she said dryly, then moved around him. She arranged the skirts better, then stepped back. “I fear these lessons may take some time.”

“It is a price worth paying to win my ten guineas from Tony,” Percy said. “Come, Margot, be merciful. Will you not show me how to be a proper lady?”

Marguerite laughed. “I suppose I may, Sir Percy,” she agreed.

 

_____________________________________

 

What began as a foolish bet became an enjoyable pastime most unexpectedly.

Marguerite had arranged for several of her older gowns to be lengthened. She murmured to the seamstress that she was sure it would be a new fashion, and in the evenings, when the servants were abed, she would creep to her husband’s chambers with the garment in question.

Several candelabra illuminated the room, and occasionally, they had a fire burning in the hearth, when there was a particular chill in the evenings. The evening winds hummed and howled about the windows, but Percy and Marguerite were quite distracted.

At first, the lessons were simple ones: how one walks, sits and moves when one is confined not only by a corset, but by the restrictions of one’s skirts. Percy was an able student, though he complained cheerfully about every little matter from the chilly draught around his nethers to the unbearable way the corset cut in.

“You complain like an old woman,” Marguerite teased. He was sitting before her at his dressing table, as she adjusted the neckline of the gown. She loosened his hair from the ribbon, and let it spread - warm and golden - about his shoulders. It was rare for him to have his hair unbound, and she ran her fingers through it. “We will need this fashioned.”

“I vow I must have ringlets,” Percy declared. “All the ladies wear the silly things. It simply would not do to be unfashionable.”

Marguerite watched his reflection in the mirror as she arranged his fair hair around his shoulders. “You would look quite becoming all in curls,” she murmured thoughtfully. “A little colour about your cheeks, perhaps reddening your lips a little.”

His eyes met hers in the mirror and he smiled the smile which made her knees weaken. “What a wife you are, Margot,” he said, lifting her hand to his lips. “Had any other wife discovered her husband prancing around in her best gown, they would have been drummed out of the house at once.”

She leaned down and whispered in his ear, “Sir Percy, I am _not_ any other wife.”

He turned where he sat and looked up at her, his features softened by candlelight. “That, Madame, I thank God for every day,” he said.

Marguerite smiled, brushing his hair back from his cheek, tucking a strand behind his ear. “Demmed fool that you are,” she said, lowering her head to claim a kiss. His hands came to her hips and she smiled against his lips. “That is not a lesson,” she murmured between kisses.

“One must know how to move,” he replied as softly.

She drew away then and bowed formally, her nightgown billowing around her legs. “Then,” she said, eyes dancing by the flickering candlelight. “Will you dance with me?”

He rose and curtseyed beautifully. “My Lady,” he said.

“My Lord,” Marguerite responded, stepping forward boldly and taking the lead.

It might have looked absurd, should anyone have seen them, Marguerite in her soft nightgown and Percy a vision in sky-blue embroidered with flowers. He towered some inches above her, yet she guided him, and he followed.  
Every so often, she had to squeeze his hand to remind her that he was not meant to lead. He hummed a tune softly, a melody that had played at their wedding, drawing a warmer smile to her lips.

“You should loosen your hair more often,” she said, as they whirled about the room.

He tossed his head. “It ain’t seemly for a gentleman, you know,” he said.

“It is seemly for me,” she said with a smile. “Is that not enough?”

He gazed down at her, drawing her to a halt. “I’ll say it is, at that,” he said, then kissed her passionately. She melted into his arms, her fingers threading through his fair hair as he pulled her closer to him.

“You should remove your dress, Sir,” she whispered mischievously against his lips. “It is quite unseemly for a man to take his wife to bed while wearing her very best gown.”

“Unseemly,” he agreed. Their feet carried them in steps that were not quite a dance, closer to the bedroom. “Unlace me, m’dear...”

She pulled him fast against her. Even beneath the heavy skirts, she could feel him, and smiled as her fingers found the stays holding the back of the gown close. She never undid her gowns, and yet, there was something strange and delightful about undoing the laces while watching her husband’s face.

His eyes were dark, hungry, shadows casting strange shapes across his features as she slowly, excruciatingly slowly, loosened the gown.

He drew a great breath when the pressure of the corset eased. She smiled knowingly, stepping back as the gown slipped down over his narrow hips, leaving him in the flimsiest of shifts, which served to hide nothing from her.

“Is this more seemly, Madame?” he asked, his voice a low murmur.

She held out her hand to him. “Seemly enough.”

 

_______________________________

 

With each attempt, Percy’s adeptness in the gown grew.

It was a pleasant afternoon when he suggested that they take a walk in the grounds, possibly down to the river. Marguerite agreed, thinking that he would wear his usual attire, but he rose and said that he needed to change into something that would befit the company of a lady.

Marguerite felt quite sure her heart would stop. “Outside? Where we may be seen?”

His eyes danced. “Is that not the purpose of the thing?” he said, lifting a hand to smooth his ruffled cravat. “After all, what purpose would all these lessons have if one doesn’t put them into practise.”

She stared at him, wondering if he was utterly unaware of how great a private pleasure the lessons had become. “I suppose,” she said quietly.

A frown creased his brow and he sat again, close to her. “Will you not come with me, my darling?” he beseeched softly. “If I make an utter clot of myself and tumble head over heels, who will disentangle me from the brambles and kiss my grazed knees better?”

She could not help but smile at his pleading expression. “You must promise not to grumble all the way,” she cautioned. “And we should be sure that the servants are kept busy and unaware of your venture.”

He caught her hands and kissed them firmly. “They will be wholly occupied, m’dear,” he said. “Now, run along upstairs and put on your summer dress. I will meet you beneath the old oak in an hour.”

“You will manage yourself?”

He laughed. “I can dress myself quite well, my Lady,” he said. “It’s the coming undone which has me undone.”

With a flash of a smile and a glint in his eyes, he darted from the room.

As promised, he met her under the oak, his brow shaded by the broad brim of one of her hats, the feather rippling lightly in the breeze. He held a fan as if he had been born to do so, and his hair was in a tumble of loose curls around his shoulders.

Marguerite bit her lip at the sight of him, and she squeezed the handle of her parasol so hard, the ridges cut into her palm.

He looked anxiously down at himself. “Have I laced myself incorrectly?”

She shook her head, then cleared her throat. “While I do not mind you acquiring my dresses,” she said lightly, as if she had not wished to kiss his reddened lips there and then. “I do not recall giving you leave to steal my hats also.”

He laughed ruefully. “La, Madame,” he said, drooping into a curtsey. “One cannot go into the sun without a shade. One might catch some unwanted colour.”

She could not help but smile in response, looping her arm through his. “Come then,” she said. “We should walk abroad beneath the trees, lest the sun brighten and defile your pretty face.”

“I’faith, Madame,” he said, smiling, “you are the very soul of benevolence.”

Arm in arm, they strolled through the gardens, beneath the shade of the beech trees, and down towards the riverbank. It was a peaceful summer afternoon, and there was barely a sound save birdsong and the distant hum of some busy bee.

There was a lovely spot, a soft grassy bank, overlooking the curve of the river and beneath the gently swaying branches of a willow. They often picnicked there when Percy was otherwise attired, and she was unsurprised when he asked that they sit there for a time.

He sat carefully down, then glanced to her for confirmation that he had done so correctly. It amused her that even if he had not done so, she would as likely as not been oblivious. It struck her as peculiar that her husband in a summer dress could look quite so enchanting as he did. With her feathered hat angled above his brow, and his golden curls, he looked every inch the elegant lady.

“Well, m’dear,” he said when she settled on the grass facing him. “Do you think I’m ready to fool Hastings yet?”

“You will be soon,” she said, leaning over his lap to arrange the skirts better, her left thigh pressed to his left. While breeches were infinitely more revealing, showing off his finely-turned calves, there was something delightful about feeling the heat of his thigh against hers through the fine muslin of the summer dress. It made her blush to think on it.

He lifted his hand to touch her cheek lightly. “You have such fresh colour today,” he murmured. “I have seldom seen you look so radiant.”

She turned her head to kiss his bare fingertips. “Is it so?” she asked softly.

He gazed at her, lips parted slightly. “Madame,” he said, his voice quiet, barely above a whisper, “would it be unseemly to request a kiss from the lady?”

“A kiss? Out of doors where any might see?” she asked in false horror. She leaned more comfortably across his lap, her forearm resting on the grass and her hand toying with his skirts. “One cannot kiss another woman in public. It would be a scandal.”

“Margot,” he complained quietly.

“Hush, my love,” Marguerite whispered. She could not understand how she could want him as much as a pleading woman as a strong-willed man, but it was so. Out of mercy, or perhaps a little cruelty, she laid her small, warm hand knowingly into his lap. “A lady should not kiss in public.”

He drew a sharp breath then, and trembled beneath her touch, his head pressing back to the tree behind him. The muslin shifted beneath her fingers, and the coarse fabric beneath was no doubt teasing against flesh already sensitive. “Margot...”

“Hush,” she murmured, shaping him through the soft cloth. He made a soft sound, low in his throat, and cast his head back. Unable to resist, she leaned up to press a kiss to the velvet ribbon that decorated his neck, then the bare flesh on either side.

He shuddered, one hand sinking into her hair, kneading the back of her neck.

Quite where his other hand was became clear a moment later when a firm palm slid over her knee, beneath her skirts, and under the delicate cloth of her shift. His fingers traced wicked patterns on her skin, inching ever higher.

“Percy,” she whispered, her eyes falling closed.

“M’lady,” he rejoined, his own breathing heavy as her hand stuttered against him through the skirts.

She kissed his throat, his jaw, even lavished kisses on the curve of his ear. “You will be the envy of every man and woman in London,” she breathed, cooling the flesh she had damped with her tongue. Her voice caught in a shrill cry as his fingers moved skilfully.

“M’dear,” he whispered heatedly against her ear. “I already am.”

 

___________________________________

 

There was only one difficulty with teaching Percy to dance. The steps were easy enough, and he could follow well, but Marguerite’s nightdress kept tangling with the ornate skirts her husband was wearing. He had developed a stance which disguised his height, but also made his skirts a little longer. That combined with her nightdress led to confusion.

She stepped back from him again with a sigh of impatience. “This should not be so difficult,” she said.

Percy sat down daintily on the edge of his chair and folded his hands in his lap in a show of modesty that was quite breathtaking in its audacity. “I suppose it is always easier when one of the two is in breeches, what?”

“Unless you have a mind to dance with Wilkins or one of the servants,” she said, smoothing down her nightdress. “I fear you will be unable to practise the gavotte.”

He arranged the skirts around his knees. “Hmm.”

“Percy?”

He looked up. “I have a thought on this conundrum, m’dear,” he said, “though you may find it rather repugnant.”

She tilted her head. “Please elaborate.”

His lips curved up in a sleepy smile. “If I am in a skirt, would it be so wretched for you to don breeches?”

Marguerite stared at him. “Me?”

His eyes shone. “We could practise dance far better, were one of us in breeches. Clearly, it cannot be me, as I have to learn to dance on this confounded contraption, but you…” The smile flashed across his lips again. “In the name of education?”

“I suppose it might be possible,” she agreed, though she could feel a blush rising up her cheeks. “Where would one find breeches to fit me, without raising questions?”

Percy leapt to his feet with impressive speed and hurried through to his bedchamber. He returned several moments later with a bundle of clothes, which he set down on the table with great ceremony.

Marguerite directed a suspicious look at him. “You have had this in mind for some time, my Lord?” she inquired.

He laughed and shook his head, blond curls bounding about his shoulders. “Odd’s fish, no, m’dear,” he said cheerfully. “When I was but a pup, I was a slight little creature, much like yourself.” He unfolded the breeches and offered them to her, a hopeful expression on his face. “Unless you would not wish to wear something so utterly unfashionable?”

Marguerite looked at the dark, soft fabric, then up at her husband’s face. There was an eagerness there that made her heart flutter. She smiled and took the breeches. “I suppose you have a shirt for me?” One was promptly offered. “I shall return in a moment.”

When she emerged from his private dressing room, she paused in the doorway, feeling unnaturally exposed. The breeches fitted snugly against her limbs, revealing the shapely curve of her hip and the softness of her thigh. His shirt was a trifle loose, the neckline low enough to reveal the swell of her breasts beneath.

Percy turned. He drew a breath, his eyes widening, which sent a shiver of pleasure through Marguerite. He rose from the chair and glided towards her, then sank into an exquisite curtsey.

Marguerite offered a gallant hand, to aid him to rise, though she could not quell the giggle when she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. “I look absurd,” she said, as she drew him into the opening stance of the gavotte.

“I assure you, Madame,” he said, his voice sultry, “you look anything but.”

She flushed, slipping an arm around his waist, drawing him closer. “Thank you, m’lady,” she murmured mischievously.

Percy’s eyes shone. “You are welcome, Sir,” he replied

 

________________________________

 

Lord Grenville was known for holding the most prestigious balls in the land. When one received an invitation, one put aside any other engagements, as it was better to show face at Grenville’s than to miss the highlight of the social calendar.

The Prince of Wales declared his disappointment when Lady Blakeney entered the hall alone. She prayed he excuse her husband, as poor Percy was abed with a chill, and was as weak as a mouse.

“It must be a quite dreadful ailment,” the Prince lamented, “for Sir Percy to miss a ball.”

“Indeed, your Highness,” Marguerite said sadly. “He is not himself at all.”

With a great sigh, the Prince trotted off to seek others of his acquaintance. Alone, Marguerite found a seat close to the main doors and sat demurely, watching the dancers whirl about the polished floor. She spotted Sir Andrew and Lord Hastings in conclave on the far side of the hall, and smiled quietly.

“My Lady?”

Marguerite turned. “Lady Howard,” she said, rising with an effusive smile. “How lovely to see you again.” Her gaze slid sidelong to the woman beside the Duchess. “Who is your companion?”

Lady Howard motioned the fair creature forward. “Mademoiselle Louise de Bolougne,” she said in all ignorance. “She is acquainted with the noble Pimpernel, you see. He bade me bring her to the ball, that she might better acquaint herself with society here in London.”

Mademoiselle de Bolougne sank into an exquisite curtsey. “Madame Blakeney,” she said in a low, rich voice. Blue eyes danced as they met Marguerite’s. “It is a privilege to meet the Cleverest Woman in England.”

Marguerite returned the bow just as formally, smiling. “Enchante, mademoiselle. I trust you find out English celebrations quite enjoyable.”

“I am quite sure I shall,” Mademoiselle Louise said. “Lady Howard, if it will please you, I will remain with Milady Blakeney?”

Lady Howard patted her delicately gloved hand gently. “Naturally, Mademoiselle.”

She vanished into the crowd as Louise sat down close to Marguerite.

“Louise?” Marguerite murmured.

Percy’s lips twitched irrepressibly. “Tis the one thing we did not prepare,” he replied. “I had not thought on a name for myself.” He fanned himself, then slanted his eyes across the floor towards Hastings and Ffoulkes. “Dem it all, I did not expect them to approach so soon.”

Marguerite patted his hand. “You will do quite well,” she assured him, then smiled warmly as they neared. “Sir Andrew! Lord Hastings! What a pleasure to see you both.”

Both men bowed.

“My Lady,” Ffoulkes said. “I observe that Sir Percy is absent tonight. I hope his Lordship is not unwell?”

Marguerite smiled. “He is only abed with a mild chill, Sir Andrew,” she assured him. “I have no doubt he will be out and about in no time. He simply could not find a cravat that would compliment a nose that is bright red.”

The man looked relieved, but his companion’s attention was Mademoiselle Louise.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, “I crave your indulgence, but I feel we have met before?”

Louise looked up at him, kohl-lined eyes bright and mischievous. “Perhaps we have, my Lord?” she suggested. “Though this is the first time I come to the ball.”

Hastings bowed deeply. “Lord Hastings,” he offered. “And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

“Mademoiselle Louise de Bolougne,” Marguerite interjected, as the lady in question fanned herself prettily. “She is a guest of Lady Howard at present.”

“Mademoiselle Louise,” Hastings murmured thoughtfully. “I am sure I would remember such a name.” He bowed formally, and offered her his hand. “Would Mademoiselle do me the honour of a dance?”

Louise hid a smile behind her fan coquettishly. “I would be very happy, milord,” she said.

Marguerite averted her face with a smile as the beaming Hastings led Mademoiselle de Bolougne onto the floor.

“Lady Blakeney,” Ffoulkes said in a distant voice, watching the pair.

Marguerite looked up at him, the urge to smile growing. “Yes, Sir Andrew?”

Ffoulkes had his head to one side, watching Hasting and Louise dancing. “Why the deuce is Percy here in a frock?”

Marguerite hid her giggle behind her fan. “A challenge,” she confided, “in his Mastery of disguise. I would say Lord Hastings is quite taken in, wouldn’t you?” He looked down at her in disbelief. “Oh, come Sir Andrew,” she said, grasping his wrist and pulling him down to sit beside her. “Surely you did not think he would learn to act the part so well without instruction.”

Ffoulkes nodded, dazed. “I would not have recognised him.”

Marguerite glanced at him. “And yet, you did,” she said. “How is that?”

He laughed quietly. “His eyes,” he replied. “One can never forget how impish the wretched man can look when he is up to mischief.”

Marguerite smiled, rapping him on the knee with her fan. “I daresay he will win himself a few admirers before the night is out,” she said, “but I would rather not sit like a gooseberry and watch. Will you take the floor with me, my Lord?”

Sir Andrew rose gallantly and bowed. “It would be my honour, my Lady.”

They interposed themselves into position as the Minuet began, and occasionally, they passed Lord Hastings and Mademoiselle Louise, who was laughing bashfully and fluttering her lashes in such a manner that Marguerite wondered if the poor Hastings was half-blind not to notice who he was dancing with.

In part, she also wondered when Percy might notice the distinct features of her attire.

In the shuffle of dancing feet, one would not notice that the sound from beneath her skirt was not that of a lady’s delicate slippers, but the firm rap of boots on the polished floor. She did not dance more firmly to emphasise it, but only danced correctly.

She observed the moment that Percy noticed, for the delicate step meant one dainty foot then the other was revealed. The black-buttoned boots peeped out from beneath her skirts, and he looked from them to her with such heat that she shivered with delightful anticipation.

Poor Hastings spent the rest of the Minuet trying to regain the attentions of his distracted partner. Mademoiselle Louise’s eyes were fixed on Marguerite, who in turn pretended to be unaware, despite feeling the gaze as hot as a flame against her skin.

As soon as the music stopped, Marguerite’s arm was caught in a light but firm grip. “My Lady Blakeney,” Percy whispered, his ethereal feminine voice only held in place by a will of steel. “Will you show me where I might powder my nose?”

Marguerite smiled lightly. “But of course, Mademoiselle Louise,” she said, then curtsied to her partner. “Sir Andrew, I would appreciate your discretion in matters we have discussed.”

“My Lady,” he said, his smile threatening to creep onto his lips.

Percy was either oblivious to the implication or chose not to care, as he guided Marguerite from the ballroom with considerable alacrity. There were mutters of disgust at the way he pushed through the throng, but Marguerite could not care a fig what they thought.

Lord Grenville’s was a familiar to them as their own home, and at once, he pulled her into one of the private offices, shutting the door behind her and locking it. She was promptly pressed back against the door by his body, his lips hungry against hers, as his hand caught her skirts and pulled them upwards.

“Percy,” she gasped out against his lips. “We cannot! Not here!”

“What’s this, my Lady?” he asked, his voice little more than a growl as his hand closed about her thigh. “Breeches?” She was spun about and pushed down into one of the ornate chairs which stood beside Lord Grenville’s desk.

She shivered in delight. “Ay, Percy,” she said breathlessly. His hand moved unerringly, cradling the apex of her thighs and making her shudder. “But we should not...”

“Indeed, Madame,” he said, and to her astonishment, fell to his knees before her. His fingers nimbly loosened the breeches, and she uttered a soft startled sound as they were peeled down to her knees.

“Percy!” she protested. “We should...”

The protest died on her lips and he kissed her there, between her thighs.

Her boots were pulled off one by one, and the breeches drawn from her legs entirely. He slipped between them, and she whimpered softly as he lifted her limbs over his shoulders, the softness of his golden curls tickling across her thighs.

“Percy...”

She swore she felt his smile against her inner thigh.

Her world became a dizzying place then, her husband’s ministrations thorough and utterly delightful. The sight of him only added to the wonder of it all, his skirt spread about him and his kohl-lined eyes flicking up to meet hers. She slid half off the seat, only supported by his firm hands cradling her backside, one of her hands clasping uselessly at the arm of the chair, the other tangled in his hair.

Only when he was thoroughly satisfied that she was the same did he gently release her shivering thighs, tracing his fingertips along the soft skin. She uttered the faintest of sounds, her eyes lashes fluttering, and heaved a great, dazed breath.

“M’lady,” he murmured, urging her to open her eyes. “Tell me truly. Is my rouge utterly smeared?”

She giggled softly. “La, Sir Percy,” she said weakly, “when one allows one’s face to be moistened, one will have to apply fresh rouge.”

“The devil with that,” he murmured, parting her thighs to kneel up and kiss her, their skirts tangling together. She could taste something she only presumed to be her own flavour on his lips, and she wrapped her arms about him greedily, wanting for more. “Madame...”

“We should not,” she whispered breathlessly, with an enticing sway of her hips.

“Tis unseemly,” he agreed in a whisper. “A gentleman in his wife’s gown.”

She kissed him then, firmly. “What of a gentleman in his own gown?” she asked in a whisper. He stared at her wonderingly. “Percy, begowned or in breeches, you are my husband and I will have you.” She kissed him again, more tenderly. “Especially begowned.”

“Milady...”

Without a further word, she reached between them to draw her own skirts aside.

With an arm about her waist, he brought her to the floor, kissing her all the while, lavishing rouged kisses across her throat even down unto her fair breasts. Together, they drew up the tangle of his skirts, and she felt the warmth of his thighs against hers. She parted her limbs to him in unspoken invitation, her eyes bright.

“M’lady,” she whispered to him.

He fell upon her then, eagerly and with abandon, his lips claiming hers as their bodies met.

 

_________________________________________

 

The Prince was sorely disappointed truth be told. A ball was simply no fun without Sir Percy’s witty sallies and he was quite glum to find that no one else was half so entertaining as his dearest friend.

It might be improper to abandon a ball for want of fun, but propriety be demmed. He was jolly bored, and was quite happy to return to the Palace for a good game of cards with his chief attendant. The man was always willing to play again, to allow the Prince to win his money back. Of course, he rarely did, but it was half the fun!

He was taking a breath of air in the hall when he spotted a giggling pair of ladies emerge from one of the other rooms. Both of them were terribly dishevelled and they were whispering to one another of some delightful mischief no doubt.

“What, ladies? Not dancing, eh?” he called out.

The taller of the ladies stopped short, though her companion laughed. “Your Highness,” she said brightly. “You are not at the card tables?”

“Zooks, Milady Blakeney,” he replied, recognising her at once. “How do we get by without your husband, what? I swear that the balls become a barren wasteland without him there to entertain us.”

Lady Blakeney curtsied elegantly. Her hair was loose about her face, but he supposed that might be another of these new fashions. “I will inform my Lord that he has been missed.”

“Nonsense, m’dear.” Her companion spoke with a familiar voice. It was Sir Percy! “It ain’t right to say I’ve been missed when I’ve merely been overlooked.”

“Percy! Old boy!” The Prince stared at him. “What the deuce are you wearing?”

Sir Percy bowed fashionably, though he was wearing a dress, his hair was as much a bird’s nest as his wife’s and his face was painted up with rouge. “A bet, your Highness,” he said. “I believe you know Lord Hastings, what? The demmed fellow bet with me that I could not play a convincing lady.”

“I daresay the fellow was right!” the Prince exclaimed. “You look as if you have been pulled backwards through a hedge!”

“Sad to say, my Lord, that dresses ain’t for me,” Sir Percy lamented. “Zooks! I cannot move in the thing for the life of me. My Lady insists I look the part, but I fear she would have me make a fool of meself.”

“Well, we cannot have that,” the Prince said at once. “I will find this Hastings of yours and let him know that you will be otherwise engaged. Lord knows we cannot have you prancing about like that, what? Fashion will be in an uproar!”

Sir Percy bowed extravagantly again. “Indeed, your Highness. What would the world think if all the men of London dropped their breeches and donned gowns instead? Why, we would cause a sensation!”

“It would be scandalous!” the Prince agreed, his hands on his hips. “My lady, I suggest you have him crept home. Otherwise, we may see a swarm of men having the idea that wearing a dress is a quite capital idea!”

“We cannot have that,” Lady Blakeney said solemnly. “Be sure to advise Lord Hastings that Mademoiselle Louise is unavailable.”

“Mademoiselle Louise?”

Sir Percy nodded with equal gravity. “It was the name I was to use,” he said.

“Of course, of course,” the Prince said. “Now, off with you. I will make sure Hastings knows that I cannot allow this folly.”

“Your Highness.” Both Blakeneys bowed beautifully, before hurrying away down the hall, still giggling to one another.

The Prince drew himself up. So, Lord Hastings. They would have words.


End file.
